


Magpie: Four for a Boy

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Magpies [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Gunpowder Plot, Revenge, secret sibling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: "The Other One"… no, not Eurus. In my universe, the third sibling is a half-brother by the name of Fitzroy S Ford, and his level of villainy puts the Mofftiss character to shame. This is a five plus one that gives the backstory and brings it right up to date with the Watson wedding and its aftermath.
Series: Magpies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/878400
Comments: 63
Kudos: 54





	1. Something About That Boy

"You're weird."

Fitz has always known he is different, but he doesn't appreciate the accusation coming from the mouth of the ten-year-old boy looking over his shoulder. Charlie Conway is an annoying fourth-grade classmate. Child of a mechanical engineer father and a mother who is a secretary, the ginger-haired and freckled Charlie is one of those all-American kids that Fitz has come to hate. Brash, full of himself, a bit of a bully if you didn't play along with his crowd, which Fitz absolutely refuses to do. Charlie is also rather stupid, right on the edge of failing in three of the six subjects the fourth-graders are studying. He is also boring beyond belief.

Fitz looks down at the drawing which has provoked Charlie's scorn. It's detailed and very carefully drawn for one so young, his father had said, with the sort of wonder that has always characterised his father's treatment of him. He'd not commented on the fact that it captured the half-decayed body of a magpie that Fitz had found under the hedge in the back garden. Fitz had worked for hours with a magnifying glass to watch how the maggots cleared a lot of the bird's ribcage out of the guts and soft stuff. At his mother's suggestion, Fitz had left out the maggots from the drawing, but he's still managed to get a comment from the teacher. "Unusual subject", she'd said when handing them back, and she had not been smiling as she'd said it.

"That's _gross_. Who draws a dead bird, except a weirdo?"

_"T'es rien qu'un petit connard."*_

Charlie rolls his eyes. "You're just a _foreign_ weirdo."

Fitz has never fitted in, but that's to be expected and it doesn't bother him. His French parents, Jean-Paul and Marie Droz came to America when he was a toddler; he has only the vaguest of memories about the small town in the southern Alps that they left behind. At home, before he'd been old enough to go to school, he spoke French with them, and what he knows about their life in France he's learned from them. An only child, he has no elder sibling to tell him more about their homeland. His parents seem reticent to talk much about it.

 _Reticent_ is an English word he's recently added to his vocabulary. Fitz reads dictionaries the way other boys read comic books. He likes serious English words; they roll around in his head and ricochet off odd memories of a voice that once spoke to him before he could talk back. His English class reading comprehension and vocabulary tests put him in the upper one percentile of fourth-graders in the country; apparently, he reads like first year high school student.

Maybe because his grades are always As, Fitz is loathed by his classmates. He doesn't care. Teachers are different. Some he likes, others he thinks are idiots. He'd overheard one of them—the mathematics teacher—complaining to the Principal "There's something about that boy that gives me the creeps." The woman is an idiot; he's already working on basic algebra, using a book from the local library. Is it any wonder he gets every test question right? Arithmetic is boring beyond belief.

When he'd asked his mother if she'd spoken English to him when he was a baby, she'd shaken her head firmly, " _Non."_ Instinctively, he knows this is right because the voice he vaguely remembers is not hers. It's one of the oddities that he has noticed. Like the fact that their hair is light brown, and his is dark brown, almost black and curly, whereas theirs is straight. In photos of the three of him, Fitz always feels like he's the odd one out. He doesn't look like either of them.

Unlike the majority of his classmates at Lawrenceville Elementary School, Fitz has not lived in the area for the whole of his life; this is the third school in five years. His family had moved from the north of the state, where his father worked at Rutgers University as an administrator, down to Princeton for a similar job, and then to Lawrenceville, half way between Princeton and Trenton, because his mother had got a job as a French teacher at Lawrenceville High School.

The drawing assignment is part of their art class. Music last semester had been more interesting, but he's willing to do his best. It's not something that particularly interests Fitz; he prefers history, although he finds the American revolutionary period that they are currently reading about to be _very_ boring. Why do Americans think the world starts from 1776? There is so much more interesting history going on elsewhere in the world at the same time. He's devoured everything in the local library about European history. Lucky for him, his mother allows him to take out books from the adult section, using her card. All he has to do is say it is for her, even though he knows she won't read a single page of it.

His parents don't want to talk about France; they are trying hard to "make it in America", they explain. "You need to learn to blend in. Be a chameleon", they say, but continue to speak French at home to each other. As soon as he'd started nursery school at five, they stopped talking to him in that language, and started to correct his accent. Perhaps his mother's teaching position means she knows he needs to, if he is to avoid the native American's prejudices against foreigners.

Despite his attempts to ignore the boy, Charlie Conway isn't going away. He's kicking the bench in the playground where Fitz is sitting, and it's starting to rock. Fitz usually tries to avoid confrontations, and this seems to be building up to one. He gets up from the bench and starts to walk away, but the bully isn't giving up.

"Weirdo foreigner! What's a name like _Fitz_ mean? It's not even French; sounds Irish to me, or maybe you're really a Fritz, a German _Nazi."_ The boy laughs and mimics shooting a machine gun. "Pow, pow, pow…hiding out and we're going to get you."

Fitz turns around long enough to shout, "It _is_ French. Fitz _roy_ … it's an Anglo-French name from Normandy; it means son of a _king_. Like William the Conqueror." He'd looked it up, curious to know why he wasn't named after his father, Jean-Paul. Every American boy seems to be named after their father, sticking on a ridiculous number—the second or third—as if they were royalty. He decides not to mention to Charlie that the book said that a Fitzroy usually meant they were a bastard son of a king. Fitz decides he doesn't care; after all, William the Conqueror was a bastard, yet he became a king. He'd asked his father about it, but got the angry reply that it was all nonsense and no one cared about those things anymore.

"Still foreign. We should kick you out of the country for being a weirdo."

"Stop being a bully. I will tell the teachers."

The kid grins. "Go ahead, see what I care. My mom works for the Principal; I can do anything I want and get away with it. You'll regret being a snitch." He walks up to Fitz and gives him a hard shove, hoping to knock him over.

Fitz manages to keep on his feet and slaps Charlie on the face. The taller boy grabs hold of Fitz's shoulder, dragging him downwards so he can snatch the drawing. Fitz fights back and kicks the boy hard in the shin and when they separate, he kicks hard into his opponent's groin. Suddenly there is a tangle of arms and legs, punches thrown, hair is pulled. A circle of other boys and girls forms around the fight. Fitz is smaller than Charlie, but he fights mean and is holding his own until a teacher shows up and pulls the two apart.

Later, sitting in the Principal's office, Fitz explains why he had fought back. "Standing up to a bully is important."

Ramon Rodriguez is a balding but still fit man, once a PE instructor who was willing to do the administration work needed to keep a school of twenty teachers and just under two hundred students functioning like a well-oiled machine. He is known to be a strict disciplinarian, and Fitz expects him to be cross. Adults really don't understand the dynamics of tension and tribalism that runs through children. All they want is a quiet life.

"Fighting in the playground is not an acceptable way of doing that. Charles Conway says you hit him because he didn’t like your drawing. That's unacceptable; everyone is entitled to their opinion. Even if you didn't agree with him, that's no excuse to start a fight. We expect students to behave better than that."

"He started it. It's his word against mine. He attacked me, tore my drawing up, called me names."

"Whatever the circumstances, fighting is not allowed. You hurt him, kicking him like that. Fighting is bad enough, fighting dirty like that is despicable behaviour. You need to apologise, shake hands and put an end to it."

"I am not to blame, so I refuse to apologise."

"Charles Conway is willing to do so. By refusing, you are adding to your disobedience."

"He doesn't mean it. He'll lie, and just use this as an excuse to bully me more."

"Apologise and this can end here."

Fitz stares back at the Principal. He really is an idiot. Why can't adults ever understand? This is a matter of principle. "If I don't?"

"Your parents will be called, and you will have to go home and think about it. If you don't come back tomorrow and apologise, then you will have to sit detention. No more playground time for a week."

"You can call them. They're both at work. So, they can't pick me up. I walk to and from school on my own."

Rodriguez is frowning. "You don't seem to be upset about this. A disciplinary offence is serious, young man."

"So is standing up to a bully. You're telling me to apologise for something I didn’t do. That's wrong."

"Are you being insolent? Disrespect is not tolerated at this school." Now he looks angry.

"I mean no disrespect, sir." The man is clearly an idiot, but Fitz sees no reason to point that out to him.

"You aren't going to apologise?"

"No." He rolls his eyes. Why do adults think he is going to change his mind just because they repeat a stupid order?

The Principal scowls. "Go sit outside while I talk to your parents."

Fitz does as he is told. As he sits in the chair by the Principal's office, he watches the man's secretary. When the intercom goes and Rodriguez's voice comes on, Mrs Conway's whole demeanour changes, and he smirks. Clearly, the two of them are involved in a relationship, and they aren't married to one another. He knows about adultery; he's read about it in history books.

He's sent home, and when his father comes home, there is a discussion. In the end, his parents take his side, but tell him it would be best to do the detentions rather than cause any further trouble. Fitz uses the time on his own to plot his revenge.

When the school board meets at the end of that month, the Principal of Lawrenceville Elementary School is officially reprimanded for a "personnel matter". Mrs Conway quits her job, and the rumour goes around the playground that Charlie's parents have separated. Two weeks later, Charlie Conway is caught cheating on an arithmetic test. Despite his claims of innocence, he fails the test and therefore fails the subject, too. Combined with two other Fs on his report card, it is enough for him to fail the entire year.

When the new fifth graders start the fall term at Lawrenceville Elementary School, Charles Conway is no longer there; his newly divorced mom moved the family to Colorado. The new Principal is Mrs Schofield, a former history teacher. By Christmas, she is singing the praises of Fitz as a "something of a prodigy" with a bright future in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally, "You are an asshole", according to Google Translate.


	2. Spotting the Quarry

"This is Reading. Change here for the Cross Country services to Bournemouth and the north; change here for Great Western services to Bristol and Cardiff."

The station announcement penetrates through the glass window of the first-class carriage of the train, making Fitz aware that he is half-way to his destination. He doesn't lift his eyes from the copy of the Financial Times that he is reading. 

The train journey from Paddington to Oxford is one he's taken on many occasions, but this time promises to be very, very special. What he is anticipating is the culmination of half a life time of preparation. When he'd finally managed to escape America, he told the couple who had raised him that he would never be seeing or speaking to them again. Jean Paul and Marie Droz had played their part in the conspiracy to deny him his rightful place in the world. "You've lied to me for eighteen years. You are nothing to me except part of the conspiracy to deprive me of who and what I am." He hadn't bothered to shake a hand or give a hug when he walked out on his eighteenth birthday. 

That summer before going up to Balliol College, Fitz had spent in the south of France, digging around, gathering clues about an English woman with hair so dark brown it was almost black and a set of blue eyes. It didn't take him long to get a name—Violette Vernet— and head back to London. It took Fitz time to uncover the truth behind his Vernet grandmother and her illustrious marriage into English aristocracy, but he'd cracked it eventually to discover that he is descended from one of the oldest titled families in England. He'd spent a lot of time in the Bodleian Library researching the family history of the Viscounts of Sherrinford, including its current incumbent, Violet Holmes. Newspaper archives gave him corroborating dates and locations: her sparkling debut season in London of the swinging sixties, followed by a university degree in southern France and then her return to the family seat at Parham in West Sussex when her father died. She'd married a boring Norwegian who had become a UK citizen as a child. Violet Holmes had then produced two children, seven years apart—the heir and the spare, conveniently ignoring her first-born son in the process. 

As soon as he established his residency in the UK, he changed his legal name. Droz was dull. Adding a middle name of Sherrin and a last name of Ford prepared his credentials for the time when he could capture the title itself. While his peers wasted their time on parties, girls and undergraduate boorishness, Fitz collected contacts amongst senior academics who were well-connected to the British establishment. He was a blazing star across the firmament of international relations and security studies, attracting accolades for his brilliance, maturity and grasp of the strategic changes that were driving the Cold War towards an end. His personal agenda gave him patience beyond his years. Fitz might not be the bastard son of a king, but at least his childhood fantasies weren't completely off the mark. He knew he couldn't just pop up and introduce himself to the Viscountess. All that would get him is a bit of hush money. He didn't need it, because his adopted parents had been receiving money for years, all invested in his name, which he came into when he'd turned eighteen. Like clockwork, money was deposited every year from an obscure offshore company whose private shareholder was just that—private to the point of being totally anonymous and untraceable. 

In his idler moments, Fitz plotted how he might claim his birthright by doing in his half siblings. If his mother had no alternative except to recognise him, then Fitz could inherit. The idea of committing murder did not appal him. In fact, it influenced his choice of career. When an astute professor had recognised Fitz's skills, he'd gratefully accepted the offer of a job in intelligence. With tradecraft, the skills to accomplish such a murderous feat and get away with it could be learned. If he took to the training with a zealousness that surprised his mentors, then they were not to know why he chose to excel in what the service euphemistically called "wet work". 

His postings overseas undercover in the crumbling communist regimes of Eastern Europe and the USSR interfered with any immediate plans Fitz had to turn the fantasies into reality; he'd discovered that he was rather good at this job, more than enough to attract all the right eyes of the most senior people. Playing spies was rather a lot of fun, and Fitz thought he could afford to enjoy himself while working his way up the ranks. When a title could help him, it was always there for the taking, he reasoned. 

The automatic doors into the half-empty first-class carriage open, and the uniformed guard announces, "Tickets please."

He's left his ticket on the table in front of his seat, and does not drop his newspaper to acknowledge the existence of the Great Western Trains employee. Perhaps being a lone wolf for most of his career means he tends to despise ordinary people. Or maybe it's an inherited genetic arrogance of those who are simply more intelligent, operating on an entirely different level than the idiots in the general population. 

Whatever Fitz might have thought about confronting the mother who had abandoned him, those dreams were dashed when the woman died. He'd been in the British consulate in Moscow when the news reached him. Pancreatic cancer, the papers said. The new Viscount was seventeen and the other son ten. The money stopped coming into his account. He decided that he widowed husband was useful, busy building a pharmaceutical business that stoked the family's wealth—all useful when such time came to assert his claim. Just when Fitz had secured a return to London and promotion to an operations command role, the Norwegian conveniently died, leaving the estate in the hands of the elder boy, who within a year was due to graduate from Oxford. 

As the cooling towers of Didcot Power station loom on the horizon, Fitz knows that he's been wise to decide against a straight-forward assassination. The boy's death is on the cards, of course, as is the younger boy, but there is so much more pleasure to be derived in what he has planned before that happens. 

oOoOoOoOoOo

"Robert O'Neil speaks highly of him."

Sir Anthony Kenny, Master of Balliol College, Oxford hands a glass of almacenista Palo Cortado sherry to his guest. He's explained to the man about the undergraduate student in question that the boy had been invited by the Chichele Professor of the History of War to attend his graduate seminars at All Soul's this term. Fitzroy Ford lounges back in the wing-backed chair beside the fire, and gives a nod of encouragement to the academic, who sits down in the chair opposite. 

"His marks are exemplary; all his tutors say he is astute, highly intelligent, and capable of discretion. An impressive list of languages, too, as well as Latin and Greek. I think he will be ideal material for the service." Sir Anthony is pimping the boy's virtues as if any of that mattered to Ford. He has come to his alma mater under a cloak of disguise. Sir Anthony knows full well that Ford works for the Security Services and is here on a recruitment expedition. After all, Ford himself had been recruited in just such a manner seven years before, when Sir Anthony had been his director of studies. It suits Ford to pander to the man's misconceptions.

Ford's real mission is to clap eyes on his rival for the first time. "Lord Mycroft, Viscount of Sherrinford." He lets the full aristocratic texture of the title roll off his tongue in appreciation. 

"Yes, but he doesn’t stand on ceremony. The boys here know him as Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft. It irks Ford that his mother named her second son after a distant Sherrinford relative; it's an old English word meaning by the stream. When he'd been an undergraduate himself he'd spent hours dreaming of how to drown the runt in the nearest river. The Arun flows by Parham; there were ponds on the estate. Surely it would be possible to arrange a drowning? Even now, years later, the Isis would be a pleasant burial spot, if only Holmes had been a rower. 

Too simple. Two quick deaths—the heir and the spare—would not be sufficient to satisfy Fitz. For the wrong that has been done to him, Fitz wants the revenge to be painful, slow, and totally devastating.  
There is a knock on the office door, and the Master's secretary enters. "Excuse me, Sir Anthony, but Holmes has arrived early and hopes you would be willing to see him now. He has a seminar to attend that he doesn't want to miss." 

Ford is both amused and annoyed by the announcement. The idea that Holmes would put his needs above those of the Master and his as-yet-unintroduced guest is arrogance personified. And yet, it also has that edge of superiority that Ford admires—if you don't act the part of nobility, you don't get treated like one. Perhaps once the title is his, this sort of arrogance will come even easier.  
When the Master looks to him with a questioning eyebrow, Ford nods. "By all means."

The secretary departs, followed shortly by the entry of a tall young man. Ford has seen photographs, of course, but there is nothing like seeing the enemy up close and personal. Dressed with more care than the usual student, Holmes is clad in the Jermyn Street attire of the wealthy upper class —nothing too flash, but all the while signalling quality tailoring that would have cost a fortune. The boy clearly takes after the Norwegian father, with rather ginger straight hair that will no doubt recede as he gets older. Ford smirks, and compares it with his own wavy thick dark hair, which he has since proven to be the exact colour of his mother's. It is interesting that Ford sees more of himself and his mother in the youngest son.

The Master greets the undergraduate. "Ah, Holmes. Glad you could make it." He crosses to the side-table and pours the boy a sherry. "Have a seat." Sir Anthony gestures to the leather chair he had just vacated. 

Ford spots Holmes' hesitation, which leads Sir Anthony to continue quickly, "Let me introduce you to someone rather special. He's asked me to arrange this meeting, and I am happy to oblige. I have a luncheon appointment with the Vice Chancellor, so won't be joining you. In fact, I have to get going now, or I shall be late." The student does not sit down, but turns his attention to Ford, who gets eye contact now. The gaze is careful, controlled, but the young man's posture signals unease that he can't quite disguise. He clearly doesn't like surprises, and being served up on a silver platter to a stranger by the Master who is not going to be present for long doesn't sit well with him. 

Get used to it. Ford realises that he is going to enjoy this meeting more than he had anticipated.

Kenny continues, oblivious to Holmes' discomfort. "This is Mister F.S. Ford; 'Fitz' to his friends. He graduated a decade ago and has gone on to do some rather remarkable things. I will leave him to explain more." And with that, the Master grabs his briefcase and is out of the door before the undergraduate has had a chance to say another word.

Ford smirks at how Holmes is controlling his unease, and waves a desultory hand. "Oh, do sit down. I know his manners are deplorable and all that, but really…" he suppresses a laugh "…you look a little shell-shocked." He slouches back in his chair, with his right leg crossed over his left knee. He offers no hand-shake, knowing that this discourtesy will be noted. 

A fleeting moment of irritation crosses the boy's face, followed by a rather stiff response. "Mister Ford, I have an important lecture that I should not miss at 12.30. So, whatever brings you here needs to be done before 12.25." 

Oh, he doesn't mind being rude back. The boy's impatient tone is noted, as is the fact that Holmes is subjecting him to a rather intense scrutiny, trying to work out why he has been manoeuvred into this meeting. 

Rather primly, the boy sits in the Master's chair, but does not settle into it properly. Rather abruptly, Holmes announces, "You're not actually American, but have spent a lot of time in America. You like to think that you can pass as one of them. What would such a person want with me? Enough to warrant a special trip to Oxford?"

That makes Ford smirk again. "He said you were sharp."

"Who? Not Kenny."

"And why not Kenny?"

"Because he wouldn't recognise intellectual acuity if it was standing an inch in front of him."

Ford can't resist a laugh. "You're right, but I won't tell on you. It was Robert O'Neill. And, by the way, you're in that lecture series because I asked him to invite you —and he knows you won't be there today. So, you can sit back and relax. This will take a little while."

Holmes goes very still, keeping his face utterly unaffected by the information he has just been given. It makes Ford appreciate the maturity. If he'd been anyone other than a Holmes, Ford just might have been taken with him. As it is, he sniffs, "Good, you know how to control yourself. Lesser minds would have been firing questions at me by now. O'Neill said you were patient."

The undergraduate sits back a bit more in the leather chair, taking a polite sip of the sherry. His eyes never leave Fitz's. 

Aware of the scrutiny, Ford gives him a smile and a conspiratorial wink. "Sir Anthony has his uses. He's told me about your exemplary work. Says you're 'going places'; he believes he can spot political potential, that one."

Holmes decides to join the conversation. "He's a former Cabinet Minister. His instincts have been honed by twenty years of in-fighting in the most hostile political party environments. That doesn't require intellectual gifts, just political acumen."

"In both of which you consider yourself well endowed, Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount Sherrinford."

The boy does not respond, which leads Ford to smile again. "And you know when to keep silent, too. That's a useful skill, and rare in one so young."

Holmes does not respond to the compliment that most undergraduates would have sucked up with a spoon and beamed in delight at being praised. The boy's confidence niggles Ford, provokes him into snapping "Oh, just relax, will you? If you want, I'll get O'Neill to give you a private tutorial. Anyway…" Ford takes a sip of his sherry, "…it's all claptrap and gunboat diplomacy for domestic consumption; neither Viet Nam nor China want to do anything other than rattle the bars of the American Pacific fleet."

Mycroft responds coolly, "So the Pacific region isn't your speciality then. What is?"

"Я предполагаю, что Вы говорите на русском языке?"**

"Yes. But I would prefer to continue in English. You are…involved in some way in studying the dissolution of the Soviet Union?"

"Yes, it will be all over by Christmas. Gorbachev will dissolve the union and hand over the Kremlin to Yeltsin. Now the interesting part— all those nuclear weapons in the wrong places, nuclear warheads, uranium, plutonium— just begging to find their way into the black market and private hands, assisted by the notion of democracy and a more open economy. That happens to be my current area. Something of a dilemma, don't you think?"

"No one ever said democracy was safer than tyranny." 

Ford snorts at the caution and the mis-placed patriotism. "Perhaps. But polonium in the hands of terrorists? That can be delivered in the form of a dirty bomb no bigger than a suitcase- and that threatens every Western democracy. The Cold War's over; we now face the prospect of Holy Wars, wars of national liberation, wars of madmen. The control of dangerous materials- I should include bacterial and chemical warfare substances in there too— well, that all gets rather compromised in times like these. It needs men like me." Ford watches the boy take another careful sip. "Aren't you even the slightest bit curious to discover what Sir Anthony meant by 'the rather remarkable things ' I've got up to since leaving these hallowed halls?"

Calmly, Holmes locks eyes with him. "You'll tell me if it's important."

"You tell me. Go on…show off. Tell me that I have not made the wrong decision to have this meeting."

The boy takes another sip of his sherry and then puts the glass down on the side table beside the Master's chair. He folds his hands in his lap, raises his chin and announces, "I expected this to happen. What I don't understand is why you are the recruiter."

"Recruiter…for what, exactly? Spit it out; time to be open."

A little sigh of exasperation. "Oh, very well. You are not English, American or French- even though you have spent time in all three. Your accent is carefully schooled, but you can't eliminate everything. Right now, you're putting emphasis on the American because it suits you to be seen as someone who has spent time in America. So not MI5, rather, the Security Services. Probably a stint at Langley as liaison, if I am not mistaken.

"The fact that you know Robert O'Neill well enough to push him into putting me onto his lecture register suggests that you are senior enough to win his deference. Familiarity with his positions on naval manoeuvres in the South China Sea suggests that you have worked with him before. Probably an appointment when he was Director of the International Institute for Strategic Studies. It would serve as a useful cover." He is watching Ford as he delivers the deductive stream in rapid-fire monotone that is just a trifle bored. When he mentions the IISS, Ford gives him a non-verbal clue— a tiny dilation of the pupils.

Now its Holmes' turn to smirk. "Ah, I see. O'Neill recruited you." Ford decides to reward him with a tiny nod of affirmation, which leads him to continue, "But none of that explains why you are talking to me now. O'Neill is far better placed to do this himself than a person I have never met before. I respect him. So, before this goes any further, I need to know, who are you?"

Ford stands up and puts his glass on the mantle-piece. He moves until he is just a few inches inside what would be considered a polite distance from where the undergraduate is seated. It makes him loom over the younger man. "Let's face it; you'll accept recruitment no matter who delivers the invitation. Now at last, you are asking the right question. I have something much more interesting to discuss, something more 'personal'." Ford drops his previous lackadaisical attitude and replaces it with an intensity of purpose. He puts a physical tension in his posture, like a predator waiting to pounce.

Mycroft does not move. A different young man, intimidated by the sudden change in demeanour of someone conversing with him, might instinctively feel the need to stand up, too, to minimise the difference in their heights. Holmes does not rise to the bait, relying on confidence born of centuries of aristocratic heritage. He remains seated.

"This is the part I've been waiting for…well, for a very long time." Ford returns to his seat. He composes himself and then says quietly, "Did you ever wonder why it took so long for your mother to get married? I mean, you know she was a catch— a wealthy heiress, only child, with a title. Minor aristocrat with her looks and pedigree should have been snapped up by any one of a dozen suitable male equivalents. Yet, somehow, she marries late at 33 and to a rather uncommon commoner, a boring Norwegian chemist. It wasn't a big wedding. You will have wondered about these things as you grew up."

Whatever the boy had been expecting, this isn't it. Ford feels a thrill of power. Now, at last, Ford is at the point of delivering a truth that will unsettle everything that the boy has been expecting to take place in his future. He is barely able to keep from grinning.

"Figured it out, yet?"

Ford waits, but Holmes seems to be stuck, unresponsive. 

"Oh, I haven't all day if you're being dense about this. My full name is Fitzroy S. Ford. The initial S stands for 'Sherrin'. Put it together. Our mother had a sense of humour when it came to names."

He watches the shock blossom on the boy's face, and has to suppress his sudden delight that he finally has proof that the mother they share had never, ever told her beloved heir the truth about his bastard predecessor. 

The boy blurts out, "She would have told me."

Ford laughs out loud. "Oh, no she wouldn't. I was the mistake. The one who nearly got her disinherited. She was banished to France in the hope that the news wouldn't get out. They had wanted an abortion. When they didn't get that, they wanted to take me away at birth, give me up for adoption to some unknown family in Provence who'd know nothing of my origins. She refused. She hung onto me for her university years down in Nice. But, the Viscount died and tradition called, so she went running back to Parham. Left me behind—almost four years old and an abandoned bastard. I was palmed off to a couple whose discretion could be bought, who then emigrated to the east coast of America. Money came until she died, but nothing else. Not one call, not one card or letter. And I nearly forgot her. I was only a toddler at the time she abandoned me. At that age, memories fade pretty quickly. I got told a pack of lies in my childhood about being an orphan. The money came through an anonymous trust fund. It wasn't until I was in my teens that I got a tad curious and started to dig."

Fitz leans forward in the chair, hands on his knees, his expression intense. "There were enough rumours around about what she'd got up to in France that it scared away any proper aristocrats, so even when she returned from France, she was seen as damaged goods. In the end, she had to settle for that Norwegian fellow, your father. Made a lot of practical sense— she got access to his money to keep the estate afloat; he got access to her social circles— which went back to what they were once she was safely married and behaving. A marriage made in heaven, don't you think?"

He is watching Mycroft's face, as he tells the rest of the story. "By the time I put the pieces together, you were the heir apparent, the apple of his parents' eyes. Shame that illness of yours threw a scare into them, so they decided to have a second child. That didn't turn out so well, did it?" He doesn't suppress the sneer.

Still reeling from the revelation, the boy tries a flanking manoeuvre. "Who was your father?" 

"Never fear, your lordship. An aristocrat with a title, but he doesn't know about me. He was just one of many midnight flings of a socially naïve debutante, who decided she wanted to keep the baby rather than resort to a backstreet private abortion."

"But you know."

"Yes. One of the privileges of my current position is that I have access to information. A paternity test without the subject's consent? It can be arranged. I'm not the only one in the family to have tried that one; your own father resorted to it soon after Sherlock was diagnosed as developmentally challenged; didn't like to think he was capable of such defective genes. That tells you more about the state of your parents' relationship than mine did." Ford is enjoying this, watching all the boy's assumptions about his parents being shredded. 

"What do you want?" This is flatly said, with more than an ounce of disdain.

"Don't even think of going there. This isn't blackmail. I am not after money and I can't be bought off. But, you need to know that I intend being second in line. You obviously have the better claim. But, the UK law about illegitimacy changed in 1975— that's four years before our little brother was born. I'm going to hazard a guess that it's unlikely you will produce an heir. So, just know that whatever legal arrangements you put into place, remember that I will stake a claim when you're dead. There will be…others in the family who will support my claim when they know the truth. In their eyes anything is better than having someone like Sherlock take the title and the assets."

Ford stands up again, collects his empty sherry glass and deposits it on the Master's side table, next to the decanter. "So, brother mine, thank you for the opportunity to share a little bit of personal history that won't be shared with anyone else in the Service. Our paths will cross again; I'll make certain of that. Keep an eye on you; put in a good word here and there. But, while you are rising up the food chain in the business, just remember that there is somewhere someone who knows your family's little secret." 

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** I assume you speak Russian (or at least that's what Google Translate provided; if you know better, do tell)
> 
> If the scene feels familiar, then you have probably read the story called Extrapolate, Chapter 33 in my story Ex Files, which is told from Mycroft's POV.


	3. Proxy War

**_-2010-_ **

"You must be bored."

Fitz has been experimenting with automated synthesisers to disguise his quite distinct vocal signature. This one is a deep bass designed to give a Russian-accented, stereotypically criminal touch, which would not be out of place in one of Hollywood's Cold War movies. It still disturbs Ford that his own vocal cords are not yet robust enough to withstand the sort of fluent conversation that he'd like to be having.

The man on the receiving end of the telephone call sniffs nonchalantly. "Occupational hazard." The Irish lilt is unmistakable; he does nothing to disguise himself. It's as if James Moriarty relishes the limelight these days.

That fact suits Ford's purpose. "What if I were to provide you with a way to fight off the ennui?"

"Why would you do that?"

"Perhaps I am being charitable."

There is a high-pitched laugh. "Don't think so. You don't do anything that doesn't serve your purpose."

"And what purpose would that be, Mister Moriarty?"

"Making mischief, causing trouble, tormenting your friend's enemies. You have a reputation, Mister Knaslovsky."

"As you do, Mister Moriarty."

"I help people achieve their objectives. Jim'll fix it. What is your objective?"

"I want you to make mischief, cause trouble and torment someone. It's up to you to decide how best to achieve that, and you get the pleasure of actually doing it. Be creative."

"I'm a consultant; I don't get my hands dirty; a waste of my time."

"Not in this case."

"Convince me."

"The targets are worthy of your personal touch."

"Who are they?" The air of boredom being projected is added to by the sound of a yawn.

"The Holmes brothers."

"Name doesn't ring a bell. A rival gang?" Now the Irishman's sneer is evident in his tone of voice.

Ford laughs, which the synthesiser turns into a sinister chuckle. "Not a gang. The elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, claims he is a minor official in the British Government. It's not true. He _is_ the British Government, a man who allows politicians to think that they run the show. He is to international geopolitics what you are to international crime."

"If he's such a nob, why haven't I heard of him before?"

"Because he's _that_ good; if he doesn't _want_ you to know about him, you won't. But he will know about you. Mycroft Holmes is the head of something called the Security & Intelligence Liaison Service. No one has ever been able to get to him. He will be your biggest challenge, and to be blunt about it, my money is on him winning if you are on anything less than on top of your very, very best game. My advice is don't outsource this one."

"That's what they all say." Moriarty continues with his tone of boredom. "My clientele tends to have a chronic problem of overestimating their own importance. Who's the other brother?"

"Sherlock Holmes — he's the only real weakness that the older brother has. He's clever. quite possibly your match, but he has his weaknesses, too. He likes puzzles, which will give you a way to test him, tease him, maybe even win him over to your side. Get Sherlock Holmes and you'll be able to get to his brother — to break the unbreakable."

"Sounds simple."

Ford snorts. "No, Mister Moriarty, this is not simple."

"What's in it for me?"

Under the feigned nonchalance, Fitz can detect the slightest change, a piqued interest. Since he he'd been deprived of his own powers of speech for so long, he's developed formidable skills of being able to read people through what they say and how they say it. He steps up the intrigue. "On offer is the biggest challenge of your criminal life. You don't need more money, or more pointless exercises proving to yourself that you are cleverer than your clients. You need someone on your level. Someone smart enough to give you a run for your money. You'll love making Sherlock Holmes dance, seeing how far he’ll go. You and he would be so fabulous together. In short, this could be the solution to your problem."

"Problem? What problem?"

"The _final_ problem, Mister Moriarty. You have no opponent left who is truly worthy of your attention and you have no one who is a worthy partner, someone to share your glories. It must be lonely. Mycroft Holmes is the opponent of a lifetime; his brother your ideal companion."

There is a sniff on the line. "What about _you_? Aren't you worthy of my attention? Why don't I just try to take over your operations, add to my empire?"

Ford laughs. "I'm not a criminal, and I have no empire. But let me add a little incentive here. If you don't take this offer, then your network will die. I will see to it, personally. All your little friends… your fallen angels, your consultants spread across the globe. _Everyone."_

"You talk big."

Ford imagines the Irishman's shrug of dismissal. He laughs again, for effect. "Then let me demonstrate. Contact your right-hand man, your Sebastian Moran. Do it now. I can wait."

Ford puts the call on hold and leans back in his white leather chair, imagining what Jim Moriarty is doing. He'll initially scoff and shrug. As the seconds creep by, he will start to fidget, perhaps even try to speak, saying he won't play games like this. Eventually, curiosity will win and he will call his sniper's number. After six rings, a voice he doesn't recognise will answer and tell him that he has Sebastian Moran in his custody. That man has been waiting and will put the phone up to Moran's face, demanding that he say something.

Ford has done his homework well; he is almost certain that the former SAS officer turned bodyguard for Moriarty will not speak. Not until he is hurt enough. Whatever pain is then inflicted will eventually get him to cry-out. It will be enough to convince Moriarty that the threat is real.

It takes just under twenty-six minutes before the kidnapper's signal comes through — a prearranged code that arrives in an email box that is untraceable. Ford re-connects the line to Moriarty. "Now, as I was saying… the Holmes Brothers."

"I don't react well to threats, Mister Knaslovsky." There is real anger in that voice now.

It's Ford's turn to scoff. "Don't even think of it. The _bratva_ own the Russian state. It would take you a very, very long time to get anywhere near me. In any case, it's not needed. What happened with your man is simply to demonstrate that I am not a suitable target for your attentions. The Holmes brothers are."

"I take offence at your tactics."

"Then let me make you a peace offering — a demonstration of my good intentions."

"Such as?"

Ford types in the code to the email that will find its way back to the kidnapper. As he taps the send icon, he says "The man who has your sniper has just uncuffed his hands, releasing him. I also expect Moran to be in the process of killing his captor now. Rather helpful that; tying up a loose end for me."

The line goes dead, but Fitz knows that it is only a matter of time before Moriarty confirms what has happened. He will call again. It might take a day or two, but Ford has been playing a very long game. It's taken him over thirty years to get this far; he can wait a while longer.

oOoOoOoOo

Forty-eight hours later, his phone rings with a number he doesn't recognise. Standing at the window of a private office at Lubyanskiy proezd 19, he lets it ring a couple of times, taking in the view over the Kitay-gorod park. This is one of the many serviced office premises owned by his various _bratva_ clients. He likes the anonymity of appearing to be just another Russian businessman trying to do deals in private, with no one the wiser about his activities.

" _Da."_ He keeps in neutral, flat, a perfect imitation of all those bored, minor bureaucrat that infest Moscow these days.

"You wanted my attention. You have it. Most people don't like that happening, because it can lead to bad things happening to them. Why do you think you are different, Mister Knaslovsky?" There's no mistaking the menace that Moriarty allows to feed into his tone.

"Because I know you, Mister Moriarty. I've been studying you and your network for some time."

"Planning a take-over bid?"

"No. That's not the purpose of my commission. You are one of the only people I would ever set against Mycroft Holmes, who I should assure you knows far, far more about you and your activities than you have been able to dig up on him over the past two days."

"Why would a minor civil servant care about little ol' me?" The teasing banter of the previous conversation makes a reappearance.

"You're right in one respect. You are not significant enough to concern him, not really. Not _yet_. Your operations have not jeopardised his gambits on the political table — this is a man who deals in governments, armies, revolutions. Common crime is rarely significant enough to concern him. He's sure to know about your cohort of corrupted officials; that has some nuisance value as far as he's concerned, but that's all. Some organised criminal networks that you do business with are of interest to MI 5 and 6, and they might cross his desk occasionally, but he's a bit like you—doesn't like to get his hands dirty. He left field work to the foot soldiers long ago.

There is a thoughtful silence at Moriarty's end; perhaps the master criminal is deciding whether to accept this explanation. Ford had deduced that he should play to the man's vanity; it must be a grating insult that someone acclaimed to be such a world-class player as Mycroft Holmes wouldn't give him the time of the day.

"How do you like the look of the little brother?" Ford muses. "Flamboyant, isn’t he? Likes to help the Met out, solve crimes. You'll be able to catch his attention just by tossing him a puzzle or two. Then, once you've hooked him, you can reel him into serve your purposes. Set him against his brother."

"Turns out, I have had a run-in with the little brother before. Long ago in a galaxy far, far away."

Ford is intrigued. "Do tell."

"An engineered death of a school boy who annoyed me at a swimming competition, one of my earliest attempts to spread my wings. I got away with it, too, despite a young boy who went to the police three years later and told them about the missing shoes. That was back in the days when I kept trophies. Lucky for me, no one believed him. The newspapers reported him as William Holmes, so I didn't connect him with the name you gave me."

"So, now you see what I meant; you two could be soulmates."

"What I don't know is why you are after either or both of them. What did the Holmes boys do to you?"

"That's personal, and irrelevant." Ford smiles. The two days have given the Irishman enough time to do some research. "It's complicated. But the younger one is the corruptible party. A past filled with drugs, sex and life on the streets. He's got mental health issues: unstable, volatile, hedonistic, not a long-term planner. Quite the opposite of big brother. More than happy to take risks. Just your type, I'd say."

"I'm not in the market for a pet."

"A pet that is smarter than you is what we call an _asset_ , Mister Moriarty."

"No one's smarter than me."

Mycroft Holmes most certainly is, and even Sherlock might be, which is why Ford needs to get Moriarty to focus on the younger one. "Try him; he'll give you a run for your money; I'd say the odds are fifty-fifty. If you can’t win him over, then you won’t stand a chance against his big brother."

"So, why aren't you doing this yourself, Mister Knaslovsky?"

"Because I'm smarter than Mycroft Holmes, let alone his baby brother. I have reasons to avoid being connected to this directly." _Not yet, anyway_. "The question is whether you are smart enough."

Moriarty scoffs. "By the sound of it, you know how to hurt a guy. I've found death to be much simpler a solution to genuinely problematic acquaintances than delegating tormenting them to someone else. Done right, it leaves fewer loose ends."

 _A quick or even painful death wouldn't be payment enough even to level our scores._ "Take down Holmes; destroy him through his brother. I assume you don't want to miss this opportunity to hone your skills. Think of how it will look on your CV; a way to demonstrate your aptitude to all your future clients."

"Opportunities are a dime a dozen when one creates them instead of just waiting for them to appear." His tone is almost dismissive, which irritates Ford. Why does the man's ego need to be stroked so often?

Moriarty continues, "What's in it for me? You still haven't explained that."

"Perhaps it's time to be _significant,_ Mister Moriarty. Level up. If the challenge isn’t enough, let me give you an incentive; if you beat them, then maybe I will decide not to take your network over myself _."_

"And if I say no?"

"Then I will most definitely take over your network."

There's a histrionic sigh from the other end. "I'll see what I can do. Goodbye for now, Mister Knaslovsky."


	4. A Dish Best Served Cold

**_June 2012_ **

Ford opens the cardboard packaging to reveal June's Book of the Month. The fact that it is the exact same book club to which Vivian Norbury subscribes is not coincidental. Opening the front cover of Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies, he takes a moment to savour the irony of that particular title before he pulls out of his top jacket pocket the set of numbers he'd received today by email. He has no doubt that the person who sent it using the Wi-fi in a vacant holiday rental cottage in St Mawes to an email address in Germany had no idea that it would be moved onto four continents and forwarded through thirty different IP addresses. Those even included several on the dark web before arriving at a Moscow serviced office where a bored ex-civil servant now in the employ of one of Moscow's most imminent _bratva_ families printed it out and handed it to a courier.

The first number is 158, underscored, so Ford turns to that page. Red pen in hand, he starts counting the letters in the words on the page. Every time he reaches a letter that matches one of the numbers on his piece of paper, he circles it. The same on page 173, and then again on 199. It is a laborious process, old-fashioned tradecraft. Encoded cyber messages are never fool-proof these days. Only something unique to the two people communicating, something that cannot be connected to the two of them, something that changes every month but will always be the same for those two — that is a code that cannot be broken unless one of the two recipients confesses.

Ford has no doubt that Vivian Norbury would rather die than confess that he is her correspondent. She has kept his secrets and been his loyal mole for decades — before, during and after his treason was exposed and he was incarcerated in Tbilisi.

Decoding the message is a long, slow process of counting — one requiring great patience. That's something he'd learned while rotting in solitary confinement. He'd lived inside his own mind, recalling all the luxuries and sensations of his former life style, which would have put a sybarite to shame. The thing about a photographic memory is that it allows endless reruns, with hours of entertainment to counter the four blank walls of his cell. He was never bored.

If Ford is smiling halfway through the process of decoding, there is no one else in the room to see it. That's another thing he'd learned in prison — to appreciate the luxury of being alone and unobserved. If it meant he had his Moscow flat swept for surveillance devices twice daily, then so be it. He could afford it.

Ford has reason to smile. Of course, he'd been kept informed of the impending climax of Moriarty's plot against Sherlock and had even managed to get a pre-published scanned image of the Sun newspaper article about the Fake Detective, but after the media storm that followed his suicide, there were so many unanswered questions. Ford had spent the four days following the news rolling like a feline in catnip, wallowing in the tide of salacious coverage about his defective half-brother's many flaws and spectacular fall from grace.

_One down, one to go._

Vee's message is now obliging him with the sordid secret bits of the story that Mycroft Holmes and his cronies at Whitehall have managed to keep out of the press. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood's private secretary is privy to all the gory details, and she knows instinctively that Ford will want all of it, every last little titbit, rumour and gossip.

The last letter is identified and Ford recites the whole sentence aloud, revelling in its deliciousness: _"The story is that Sherlock committed suicide after murdering Moriarty, whose body was recovered from the roof of Barts, positively identified and buried."_

Vee's message is unexpectedly perfect and so very, very convenient! The biggest imponderable variable in his original plan had been what would happen next if Moriarty's plan had succeeded, leaving the Irishman in a position of greater strength. He'd assumed that Mycroft would go on the warpath, rampaging for revenge, which should have given Ford a chance to find someone able to complicate that process — to find an opening that would allow him to destroy the Viscount's reputation so it would be easy to take the title from him.

This is even better. It has always been Ford's plan to take over Moriarty's network. Now that his idiot little brother managed to do the dirty work for him before killing himself, the way is open for Ford to waltz in as the consulting criminal's successor. He might have fun doing it in such a way that makes Mycroft wonder if the dead body in the grave is the real thing. Perhaps a bit of fun can be had by planting some stories about Richard Brook being the victim… it would be a simple process.

He stores that thought for later and resumes decoding.

_A photo of Sherlock's funeral was taken by a Parham employee, sold to the Mirror and then D noticed because it contained an image of Mycroft at the graveside. He's under a cloud, reputation damaged, recused from the S &ILS plans to attack and clean up the rest of Moriarty's worldwide network. _

Ford wonders if he can use his special contact in the media to obtain a copy of that photo. He'd like to mount it on his wall and relish every moment of the pain that Mycroft would have suffered by his brother's death. Perhaps he can find a way to pressure Magnussen into publishing it, anyway. The media magnate has received a sample of blood every month for over a decade, supposedly coming from Ford who is still believed to be in that prison cell in Tbilisi, even though he escaped in 2006 and left an imposter in his place. Vee so expertly altered the DNA record that no one has been any the wiser.

The media angle is so useful. The Dane has no idea that Ford and Mycroft are related; to him what matters is that Ford and Mycroft are just two of the people who help him collect data in exchange for other services Ford has made sure to employ the magnate's services for other matters as well to shift attention away from the Holmeses. In exchange, Ford has extended his services as an intermediary in Russia. Favours are now owed, debts needing to be repaid. Magnussen is a magnet for all the dirt that people can't afford to have published. Goading him into provoking Mycroft on a regular basis has been a secret pleasure that Ford has enjoyed, a careful knife-edge balancing act to ensure that the Dane doesn't step over the line in a way that would provoke the intelligence community into taking punitive action against him.

However tempting publishing that photo is, it would be parading Mycroft's loss and his identity in public, and too overt a way to start Ford's campaign to disgrace the man. Subtler methods are needed.

Vee's message continues: _'Mycroft is persona non grata, recused from any of the follow-up work. He prowls the corridors looking sour or is holed up at the Diogenes. Smallwood told him to take "compassionate leave". Ridiculous idea; the man has the empathy of a dead fish. What would you like me to do next?'_

It's a good question, one he will not rush to answer. Ford decides to go to his War Room. Equipped with the latest in war games battle scenario programmes, his mental construct is equipped with all he needs to plan the next phase of his campaign. If the programmes he runs in his mind's War Room are remarkably similar to a set stolen from NATO by a disgruntled German with former connections to the STASI, then that is Ford's business and no one else's concern. The man who had provided it in exchange for the promise of a ridiculous sum of money and a safe haven in Russia is now a skeleton at the bottom of the Seddinsee, southeast of Berlin. The original, stolen copies of the programmes have been destroyed, and Ford has the only versions, scrubbed of their chain of acquisition. They are his get-out-of-jail card with the current Russian regime. If the powers that be should ever turn on him, he'd hand the NATO programme over in exchange for his freedom. This is what he's been doing all his life — planning for disaster, building in contingencies and exit strategies. It's what got him out of that cell in Tbilisi, and it is what will put him into the Great Hall of Parham, as the next Viscount Sherrinford. For someone else in his position, it might sound like an oddly humble goal to hold court at an English country estate, but they don't understand the symbolic value.

oOoOoOoOoOo  
  


**_November 2012_ **

This month's book club selection, The Sins of the Mother by Danielle Steele, is so not his cup of tea. The very genre repels him, so he takes out his distaste by using his black marker pen to strike through the text in one continuous thin line until he comes to the letter he needs; it's seven words in _._ He patiently writes the page number and then the numbers 6 dash 7 before continues his letter search, totalling up the running character count at the end of each paragraph.

By the time he's completed his set of numbers, the message has come to life: " _Does S &ILS know what happened to The Viking and why he is in America, hell-bent on destroying Moriarty's American network? Are you sure M is still recused on the sidelines?"_

Ford sends the list of numbers to an address in Cornwall, enclosing a National Lottery card as cover. It will be carried by one of his people on a trip to Berlin tomorrow where it will be posted. An innocent who might open the letter will assume these are just lottery numbers, without realising their significance.

Ford's work to take over Moriarty's network had been going so well. From the consulting criminal's death five months ago to the start of November, he'd insinuated himself seamlessly and anonymously into the driving seat. The Irishman's taste in collecting Fallen Angels had been impeccable; a real treasure-trove of influencers who could be bent to his purposes. Ford has been doing something similar: working his way around the globe, collecting useful people into his own orbit. The criminals who had used Moriarty's services were not always of the same calibre, so he weeded through them carefully, shutting out those he considered unworthy of his time and energy.

Because Mycroft had been relegated to sitting on the bench, Ford had found the actions of the authorities in the countries where the network operated to be predictable, slow and clumsy. Without Moriarty pulling their strings, the remnants were easy pickings, provided Ford moved in quickly enough. Always anonymous and never in the same guise, he worked his way through them, fragmenting the structure so they could hide from the authorities who were blundering around in the dark all summer long. Dodging them, putting up smokescreens to hide and misdirect their attention had been an easy exercise. As a result, the valuable bits of what Moriarty had built are now under his control.

Until November, that is. That's when the American network had been split wide open suddenly. The Fallen Angels there had been identified, exposed and reeled in, and are now mired in the US judicial system, facing charges that are somehow evidence-based. If he didn't know better, Ford would have said that Mycroft must have been involved. The idiots at Langley and their poor cousins in the J. Edgar Hoover Building would not have had the intellectual brain power to unravel the network with quite such speed and panache.

It had taken Ford two whole weeks of digging to find out how that part of the network could have gone down like a house of cards. Luckily, his FSB, GRU and SVR contacts in Moscow have been willing to lend a hand — for a fee and a helping hand regarding illegal supply routes in the Caucasus mountain regions. _You scratch my back, I will scratch yours, and together we will itch less._

Slowly but surely, a picture had emerged as the autumn progressed. According to the _Sluzhba vneshney razvedki Rossiyskoy Federatsii_ , The Viking is a former member of Moriarty's network, a Norwegian by the name of Sigurson. The man had been a minor figure a year ago, but just prior to Moriarty's death had assumed a greater importance. Ford has spent the summer moving in on the network but his priorities had been Russia, the US, UK, Russia and China. By the time he got around to trying to recover the remnants in Oslo, there was nothing left. The network in that side-show-to-a-side-show had apparently imploded immediately after the Irishman's murder by Sherlock Holmes.

It appears there is no one is left who would be able to tell Ford much about this Norwegian mystery man. All Ford knows is that he had been involved in the biggest money laundering and market manipulation scam of the past thirty years*. The fact that the plot had been broken by Sherlock Holmes a few months before his suicide added some piquancy to the story, but how the Viking had avoided being caught. How much effort Holmes had put into finding out his whereabouts were still unclear. Ford has long suspected that his youngest half-brother cared much more about solving the puzzle than he did about justice _._ _Less power-hungry than Mycroft, clearly, if he'd settle for the life of a sleuth._ It's irrelevant now that the man is dead.

The GRU operations in London had caught a rumour, a mere whiff that was very, very hard to substantiate, that the Viking had been in London at a hospital recovering from a severe injury. How he'd been transported from there to the USA is unclear to Ford. Perhaps Vee will be able to shed some light on that. The idea that the Americans are now using the Viking somehow, having turned him from an enemy into a willing accomplice in their work, is annoying. A mere fly in the ointment, but annoying nonetheless.  
  


oOoOoOoOo

**  
2013**

It's something unusual this time — a cook book. Rick Stein (whoever he is) has done a cookbook about India. Bemused, Ford looks through the recipes and thinks that this time he won't burn the book but give it to his personal chef. The man comes in with meals three times a week, deposits them in the fridge and freezer together with instructions on how to put in the final touches. The other four days' worth of ingredients are left for him to enjoy on his own. After the bland, institutional fodder of his prison years, Ford has discovered how much he enjoys preparing his own tasty meal, the spicier the better. A love for the culinary arts may just be the only thing he has in common with his usurper Viscount of a half-brother, who fancies himself as a gourmet.

Chasing the numbers for the letters through the recipes is not easy; Ford completely bollocks it up before he realises that the numbers had to include the ingredients lists. Restarting the process and then picking his way through the various pages yields him this message from Vee:

_'Congrats on getting Snowden to safety; the Guardian has published the lot and put the cat amongst the pigeons. You are a GENIUS!'_

Ford takes a break to fix himself another coffee and to enjoy her praise. She is the only one to whom he's given any idea of his role in the Snowden and PRISM business, but even she knows only a tiny bit. She thinks he's the one who got Snowden to a safe haven in Russia, never suspecting that he's the one who recruited him in the first place and got him into the NSA as a contractor. The opportunity to wreak havoc was just too good to pass up, even if it did not yield what he'd been looking for originally, which was an opportunity to add to his bag of tricks for taking down Mycroft Holmes once and for all.

Now that the little brother is dead, Ford is turning his attention to Mycroft Holmes. Immediately after Sherlock's suicide, Ford had been tempted to re-purpose one of Moriarty's contract killers to go after Mycroft, too, but dismissed the idea as too crude, too simplistic. Why give away the thrill of killing his arch enemy to a hired gun? The mercenaries had been chasing after the fake detective in the belief that the Irishman had a code capable of kicking open just about any locked system he wanted. Ford had admired the sheer and utter bravura of the man in getting into the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Wormwood Scrubs, as well as being willing to do time in remand custody just for the pleasure of perverting the course of justice at the Old Bailey. The more he'd investigated the remnants of the network left after Sherlock murdered him, the more his opinion of Moriarty had risen. There was no code, of course, but that didn't stop the Holmes brothers from thinking there was one — a fatal mistake for both Sherlock and Jim Moriarty.

Just as he'd told Moriarty, it would be too easy to put a bullet in Mycroft's head. If that was all Ford was after, the deed would have been done years ago. He needed the man to suffer, to be humiliated, to lose everything. He needed to have Mycroft's failure splashed on the pages of newspapers, and for his name to be something that everyone in the intelligence world would henceforward curse in the way they did Philby or Snowden. Unfortunately, Ford had been unable to bend the course of the scandal in a way that implicated Mycroft; the closest he could get was to embarrass GCHQ's Director, Sir Iain Lobban, who would be pushed out of office into early retirement once Parliament was done with him. He'd enjoyed the verbatim records of the man being roasted for allowing surveillance requests from the NSA to go unreported to the oversight committee.

Shame it hadn't been Mycroft in the hot seat. Foraging through the list of ingredients for Mrs Samundeswary's Chettinad chicken, Ford finds it is whetting his appetite for food as much as the next set of letters he needs to match the numbers on Vee's list.

In the rest of her message, Vee swears that Mycroft is still in the doghouse and being kept at arms' length from the work on rolling up Moriarty's network. Actually, Ford instinctively knows that it couldn't be Mycroft behind his current spate of problems; his mind just doesn't work that way. No, it's the wretched Viking fellow whose been harassing him, so far eluding Ford's best endeavours to get to him. The man's a bloody Houdini. Once he'd left working with the American's he seems to have gone solo; none of Ford's contacts or the Fallen Angels in the world's intelligence services that he's hoovered up over the past year has been able to say anything about the mysterious packages that occasional arrive on their directors' desks, full of material about the network and how to dismantle it. But his fingerprints are on the bust-up in Lugano and now the debacle in Mumbai**.

Between that and trying to stem the tide of factional infighting that seems to have infected so many of the network's remnants, Ford is getting seriously annoyed. It's distracting him from his more personal ambitions. Staring down at the book, he registers the realisation that he is hungry. He reconsiders the recipe and wonders where in Moscow he might find a shop able to sell him what Rick Stein calls _dagarful_ , which a brief internet search shows him is a whole spice that is actually a lichen growing naturally on stone. Some ingredients are worth hunting down. He makes a note to speak to his chef about it. The dish will be all the more authentic if he is just patient enough to source it properly rather than try an easier-to-obtain alternative.

A bit like the dish called revenge — no need to rush or make compromises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *as told in the story Bad Banker, in the Fallen Angel series. 
> 
> **as told in the story, Still Talking When You're Not There, in which The Viking, Lars Sigurson, AKA Sherlock on hiatus, breaks up Moriarty's old money laundering network in Lugano, Switzerland, and goes on to expose the organised criminal family in Mumbai, getting wounded in the process.


	5. Nemesis

**Early October, 2014**

The news from Charles Moran is encouraging. It had arrived via the latest weekly issue of Private Eye, in the classified advertisements, under events. "Looking for a special guy to grace your bonfire this year? Call 0793 4673." Decoding from page 7 of the issue, the 7th, 9th and so on letters of the advert spelled out 'ON TIME'.

The idiot has been so useful over the years. Of course, the son of a politician handed a baronetcy for services rendered to the Conservative Party in the 1960s would have assumed the airs of an aristocrat but Ford knows there's more to Lord Charles Moran, who had followed his father into the Party echelons where he'd been useful as a conduit for corrupting people useful to Ford. Of course, Charles has never actually _met_ Ford — not even back in the days when he was in charge of S&ILS, but that was more a question of him not wanting to let the man get too close. No one apart from he knows that Lord Charles Moran, son of the now dead Archibald Moran, Baronet of Hoddington, is in fact his half-brother. Ford had tracked down and then confirmed via DNA the identity of the man who had seduced Violet in her debutante season, unknowingly spawning the love child who she would call Fitzroy.

When he'd reached London after being recruited into the Security Service from Oxford, Ford had looked into all of his siblings. Archibald Moran had an only child, a son only two years younger than Ford, which confirmed his belief that his mother had never told her seducer about her own pregnancy. The "done thing" would have been for the cad to marry her, uniting his political peerage with her aristocratic heritage into a powerful duo. The fact that both of his parents had abandoned him has been Ford's driving force all of his life. He is nemesis, born with an urge to wreak havoc on those whose selfishness had deprived him of being the rightful heir to his place in society.

It had given him great delight to destroy Charles Moran, the hapless idiot who had managed to scrape a life peerage and a government post out of services rendered to the Conservative Party, services which Ford had discovered consisted mostly of funnelling illegal overseas contributions into the party's covers. He'd blackmailed the Minister for Overseas Development into becoming a willing tool of the North Koreans, and is now using him as a willing participant in the final plot — one that will be Ford's crowning achievement, his _ekdikésis._ He likes the Greek word for vengeance, it has a double meaning of retribution and vindication, which suits this moment. Moran has no idea that his handler is anything but a loyal follower of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea; all communication has been by phone or coded message.

Moran has promised to deliver the fatal blow on the fifth of November, as planned. According to Vee's message in the middle of this month, news that something is up has been circulating in the intelligence community for a few days, but the lot are utterly clueless as to what it is or who could be behind it. _'Not even Mycroft hasn't been able to crack it_ ', she had written to reassure him. Of course, he'd not told her anything. Vee has her uses, but he needs neither a confidante nor an accomplice.

_Remember, remember the fifth of November._

It's become his mantra; never spoken out loud, but repeated again and again in his War Room. The old saying is about to be given a whole new meaning, and it will be his lasting legacy, his _gift_ to the British security services. In the House of Commons, the 2014 Anti-Terrorism Bill is to be introduced on the 5th of November. The Prime Minister has requested the presence in Parliament of the heads of the three services and of Mycroft as Director of the Security & Liaison Committee, prior to the debate, to deal with questions being raised by MPs about the far-reaching powers of surveillance and extended detention without charge of terrorist suspects. All of his enemies, in one place. _At last._

Ford takes a moment to savour the news. The Gunpowder Plot will be utterly spectacular, and the fact that no one will ever suspect that he is the one behind it makes it even more delicious. When the ashes around Parliament Square are still being sifted through for clues, he will arrive back in the UK in his new persona, and provide the DNA evidence needed to claim his rightful place to fill the tragically vacant Viscount of Sherrinford. All those who knew that the man who was once named Fitzroy S. Ford was a half-brother to Lord Mycroft Holmes will be dead.

oOoOoOoOo

**Late October**

The list of numbers arrives by the usual route this morning, but the timing is unusual. Vee doesn't often send twice in a month, and what is also worrying is that it seems the message is very short.

Ford opens this month's book again; it's Patricia Cornwell's Flesh and Blood, a forensic crime thriller that he'd found terribly formulaic and pedestrian.

It is the work of only a few minutes to decode today's message: ' _Call me on 0793 210170. URGENT.'_

This startles Ford. In all the years he has known her, Vee has never once broken protocol in such a manner. Suspicions flare. Could this be Mycroft Holmes' doing? Has he uncovered the link, somehow? Is the Gunpowder Plot at risk? Vee's message last month had been excited; Mycroft Holmes had somehow been returned to the fold, perhaps linked to the results of the public inquiry that had exonerated the reputation of his idiot brother, driven to suicide by Moriarty. Ford had noted, with annoyance, that Magnussen had been unable to publish or even to circulate the rumour that Sherlock had murdered the Irishman. Vee had reported that D notices had been ' _thrown around like flypaper_ '.

The joys of VOIP is that phone calls can take place via the dark web. It's not something Ford likes doing, but in this case — now that his own voice is restored but just different enough to avoid automatic surveillance recognition programmes — Ford doesn't have to hide behind a synthesised voice app. He does take the precaution of using a virgin burner phone purchased in the UK and routing his VOIP calls without revealing his position overseas.

Three rings to the coded phone number gets him a slightly breathless, "Hello?"

He recognises her voice. "It's me. Is this a secure line?"

"Oh, thank God. Yes. It's what they call a 'burner phone'; I got someone who lives in my block to buy it off the internet for me. It's wonderful to hear your voice after all these years."

"Never mind that. What's so urgent?"

He hears her take a breath as if calming herself. "Sherlock Holmes is _alive_ and back in London."

For a moment, Ford is struck dumb. After the silence goes on, Vee interrupts, her voice concerned, "Hello? Hello? Have we been cut off? Are you still there? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, yes, stop gabbling. The question is: _how_ is this possible?"

"Lady Smallwood gave Lord Holmes permission to break the recusal and he disappeared two weeks ago into the Balkans somewhere. Last night he returned, with his brother. This morning Lady Smallwood's office is in a total tizz. Seems that Elizabeth ffoukes has been running Sherlock Holmes as a special agent, arms-length with total deniability for two years. It's been _him_ all along — he's _the Viking_!!!"

It takes Ford a long moment before remembering that breathing is useful. Never, not in his wildest imagination had he ever anticipated this. "Are you _sure_?" It's a lame question and he knows it as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Vee snaps, "Of course, I'm sure. I actually _asked_ her… I was so flabbergasted by the news that I got the courage to ask her if Mycroft Holmes had known, because if he had, I'd underrated his acting skills."

"And?" Ford is trying to wrap his mind around the concept that the Holmes Brothers had somehow outwitted him. _The Viking_?! The man who had been a thorn in his side for the past two years, driving him barmy in trying to counter the man's attempts to dismantle the network? _Sherlock_ Holmes? The idiot brother? _How?!_

"Well, I think she was so giddy with the idea of his return that she blurted out that Mycroft had known of the plot, but there's been no contact between the two Holmeses since the faked suicide."

Ford finds himself recalibrating his previous understanding of the younger Holmes. This news won't change his Gunpowder Plot plans, but it does mean he needs have to engineer the man's death before he can take the title and possession of Parham.

"Why return _now_? Did she say anything about that?"

Vee doesn't know Ford's timetable; she has no idea that he is the one behind the unidentified threat that is currently obsessing her boss. "No. She just dashed off to a COBRA meeting. You know I am not allowed in those. Sorry; wish I could be."

"Never mind. Keep your ear to the ground. Even a whiff, whatever, text me, using that burner phone and this number."

Even as he rings off, Ford is deep in his War Room, making contingency plans. A call to Magnussen is needed. He has to find a way to work Sherlock Holmes into the frame of the Gunpowder Plot. Taking a leaf out of Moriarty's book, Ford knows that if he targets the man's inane blogger, it should draw his younger half-brother in like a magnet. Plotting a double downfall will require decisive action, and this time, Ford has no intention of outsourcing the operation to another. If even Moriarty couldn't manage to outfox Sherlock, it's time to take this personally. Ford's plans are too far advanced at this stage to alter them now, but he can tweak them to make sure that both Holmes brothers are in the area of Westminster on the night in question.

oOoOoOoOo

Ford times his arrival on a schedule that only he and Lord Moran know. Timing is everything when it is the culmination of a lifetime of waiting. Getting into the country had been easy enough, and he's been careful in London to ensure no CCTV will pick up his image. Ford has left his driver of the fast boat at the pontoon quay at Jubilee Gardens, and is walking past the queue of holiday makers and tourists willing to brave the cold November wind off the Thames for a chance to ride the London Eye and witness the sights of London at night.

As Ford waves his VIP card at the gate, the reception is friendly and efficient. He is guided to the platform as the next empty capsule comes down and lines up. He has reserved the space for himself, but one of the hospitality assistants bustles on board behind him with a bucket of ice, his champagne of choice and a single glass, together with a plate of canapés before neatly exiting just as the big wheel resumes its slow movement. 

_The best seat in the house._ It will take about fifteen minutes for the wheel to put his capsule at the top, another eighteen to get him level with Westminster Bridge and into a perfect position to allow him to see and hear the explosion that will destroy Parliament. At that point, he will be only two capsules away from the exit, and no matter how quickly the operators react to the disaster across the Thames, he should be able to slip back to his speedboat before anyone even thinks to stop the wheel. He sets his camera on its tripod, having already calculated the exact angle needed so that the building will be in the frame at the exact moment. He will want to relive this time and time again, and is determined to leave nothing to chance.

As the capsule begins its slow ascent, Ford pops the champagne cork on the Dom Perignon 1970 Plenitude. He'd had the bottle delivered earlier with strict instructions from the wine merchant. No need to overchill this rare, extremely expensive wine. On its lees for decades, the wine has a complexity to the nose that he anticipates with almost as much pleasure as the sight of seeing his enemies being enveloped in a ball of fire.

The first sip delivers what he is looking for: notes of caramel and toasted almonds, the perfect balance of crisp acidity and a sumptuous mouthfeel that so much time on the lees delivers.

_Exquisite._

He puts the glass down and pulls out his phone; luckily for him, the London Eye has ensured that every capsule gets a descent signal, so he is able to open the BBC's Parliament Channel. Live debates have been broadcast since 1989, but the audience is so tiny that it rarely registers. The Home Secretary is at the dispatch box, opening the second reading bang on time at eight thirty.

"I beg to move, that the Bill be now read a Second time. The threat that we face from terrorism is serious, and it is growing. The Security Service believes that since the attacks on 7 July 2005, about 40 terrorist plots have been disrupted. It is thanks to the hard work and dedication of our security and intelligence services, the police, and our allies overseas that almost all those plots have been thwarted, and countless lives have been saved. I am sure that the whole House will want to join me in paying tribute to those men and women…"

Ford sips his champagne again and glances at his wristwatch — a new one, purchased that afternoon in celebration. _There will certainly be a tribute, of sorts, in precisely seven minutes._

A soft chirp from his phone interrupts. Glancing at the incoming text, Ford notes that the TfL guard Moran had bribed has seen Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entering the Westminster Underground station. Exactly as planned, the younger Holmes has taken the bait. Ford has laid just enough clues to bring the pair into the blast zone. Even if they do manage to find the carriage, it will be too late.

Switching back to the audio broadcast, Ford takes another sip of champagne. The Home Secretary is still droning on in her rather sanctimonious tone. "This summer, partly in response to that threat, the independent joint terrorism analysis centre raised the threat level for international terrorism from 'substantial' to 'severe'. That means that JTAC considers a terrorist attack to be 'highly likely'."

_God, that woman is tedious, and doesn't know how right she is about to be._ Ford ignores the rest of Theresa May's speech and watches, instead, the clockface on the St Stephens Tower. Why is it that most Londoners and almost every tourist misname it "Big Ben"? _It's bad enough that modern parliamentarians decided to rename it The Elizabeth Tower in honour of the sitting monarch._ It didn't matter; the clock and bell mechanism has overtaken the truth in most people's minds. _Idiots._ If Ford's calculations are right and Moran has followed his instructions to the letter, then the name of the tower will go down in history as one of the victims of his plot. The blast radius should extend to beyond the precincts of Westminster Abbey, and destroy the Treasury building and Portcullis House.

As the clock hand creeps ever nearer to nine o'clock, Ford pours himself another glass. He looks out over London briefly but finds the view less appealing than the one in his mind's eye, imagining the committee room off the second floor in which the three heads of service and Mycroft Holmes will be watching the debate.

On the radio, Keith Vaz, an MP from a Leicester seat, has interrupted Mrs May to ask a question. "Where a British citizen has been found to be involved in terrorist-related activities in a foreign country, is it right that we will no longer seek their return to this country, and that they will have to be punished and dealt with abroad?"*

Ford smirks into his glass as the capsule begins its descent. He'd been a victim of just such a subterfuge. Cast out of the country, ' _dealt with abroad_ ' as one might phrase things in the intelligence services, sent to Georgia where he wasn't even given the luxury of a show trial before his incarceration. He owed his life imprisonment instead of a death sentence to the existence of his dead man's switch, an encoded USB drive containing evidence that would be damaging to state security. Mycroft Holmes had convinced the others that what was in the packet must be kept from the light of day, and ensured that the monthly blood samples kept coming. As long as they did, Ford was allowed to live.

Ford's revenge will not end tonight in the death of so many of his enemies. He's already planning the post-explosion endgame. Magnussen will be sent the code, enabling him to unlock the USB containing all the evidence needed to destroy the reputations of both Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes by revealing both to be murderers. After their deaths tonight, they will not be allowed to become martyrs.

As the only surviving heir, Fitzroy will inherit the title. He mutes the audio commentary on his phone, puts the glass down and steps to the side, allowing the camera full view of the Houses of Parliament. As the bell sequence announcing the hour begins, he draws a breath, letting it out slowly as the tolling starts. The bomb is due to explode on the last stroke of nine.

Counting down to eight, Ford draws another breath and holds it.

Seconds pass, but nothing happens.

The sound of the last stroke echoes downriver, and the Wheel continues to turn. He starts breathing again, and this time it's rage that is fuelling his hastened respiration.

As the capsule arrives at the red carpet and the door opens, Ford exits, carrying his camera. In the distance, the sound of sirens can be heard across the river, quite a number of them. As he clears the crowd and heads for the quayside, the flashing blue lights of police cars and fire engines can be seen on Westminster Bridge.

_Still no explosion._

Something has happened to stop his plans, something that requires escape. Ford hurries down the pontoon and steps onto the boat.

"Downriver, _now,"_ he snarls at the man in front and the boat sets off in a roar of marine engines.

Ford throws himself into a seat and is stabbing his phone, trying to find Lord Moran's number. The man is supposed to have been watching from a suite window in the Marriot Hotel next to the London Eye. When the phone is answered, Ford throttles his rage back enough to snap, "What happened?"

"Don't know. Signal set the timer off fine. Should have gone off. But there are police crawling all over the underground entrance now, and a corridor is being set up. And, I've just been told that Parliament is being evacuated."

Over the roar of the boat as it passes under the Jubilee and Hungerford Bridges, Ford shouts, "Run."

When they clear the second of the bridges, Ford hears Moran repeating, "Why? No one knows I'm involved."

"Don't be so naïve. Mycroft Holmes has known about you and the North Koreans for years. When he catches you, and he will, remember what we've taught you. Don't talk or everyone in your family dies.***"

Ford ends the call, pulls the sim card out and throws the phone into the dark water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Covered in my story, Bad Banker, in the Fallen Angels series
> 
> **Covered in my story Still Talking When You're Not There. Sherlock had been injured in Mumbai during his work there to disrupt the network; he eluded the surveillance of Mycroft's man, Albert and heads into Tibet to recover from his injuries.
> 
> ***The death of Lord Moran while in the custody of the Japanese intelligence services is covered in my Periodic Tales, Potassium, part three.


	6. Regroup and Counter-attack

**_-January, 2015-_ **

"How nice to meet you face-to-face, at long last."

"And you, Fyodr Knaslovsky."

Ford notices but says nothing about the dampness of the hand he releases. He gestures for the Dane to take a seat on one of the cream sofas in the ninth floor living room. The windows of the flat in the prestigious Kopernick building overlook the park along the Moscow river embankment. The view is bleak mid-winter; the beech trees are bare, only a few dead leaves remain.

Ford knows the significance of the address will have made the right impression. He is comfortable in his disguise as a man without subtlety, one whose lifestyle speaks of wealth and connection, a behind-the-scenes apparatchik, useful as a consultant to men of power and influence on both sides of the law in Russia. Magnussen may have realised at last that Knaslovsky isn't his real name, and that he'd been the one whose blood samples had been collected, tested and confirmed as belonging to a convicted traitor named Fitzroy Ford. To allow someone with that knowledge to be in his physical presence is taking an extraordinary risk.

_Extraordinary times call for extraordinary risks._

Ever since the Gunpowder Plot debacle, Ford has been contemplating his battle against the Holmes brothers. Over the Christmas holidays many hours have been spent in the confines of his War Room conceiving and testing various scenarios. It will not do to make another mistake this time. Ford knows he will have to fight his battle on two fronts: the first against Mycroft Holmes, whose reputation is ascendant once again after his two-year recusal, and the second against Sherlock Holmes, whose star had rised to near celebrity heights as the "Detective Who Saved London."

As his PA serves Russian Samovar tea, Ford takes a moment to observe the Dane. Rimless spectacles do little to enhance Magnussen's watery blue eyes. A high forehead, close-cropped beard and short hair that has more than a touch of grey amidst the non-descript dark blond—there is little in his appearance to suggest that Magnussen is the very modern model of a media mogul. A magnate, a magnet for gossip, a man who Ford knows is a collector of secrets.

"How may I be of service to you?" Ford puts a tiny amount of Russian accent into the American English as he asks the question. It's enough to fool all of his Russian clients, who assume Fyodr is what he claims to be—an immigrant from New York, raised by a Russian family in that part of New York City called Brighton Beach. If he is still thrilled to be able to use his voice now, it is not something he lets show to his guest, who is listening with interest.

"Ah, but it is I who has been of service to you, I think. For many years, now, if I am not mistaken."

Ford smirks. He has never underestimated Magnussen, unlike many people. Although the two men have never met face-to-face or spoken to one another before today, the Dane has come to the right conclusion. "Yes. And I have another service that I require from you now."

Magnussen is lounging back on the leather sofa, sipping his tea with the ease of someone who has taken to the English culture. He places the cup and saucer on the table between the two sofas and peers at Ford. "Does this involve blood, too?"

"Yes, and no. The material that you have been holding for me all these years with the proviso that you publish the contents if you fail to receive the blood test results…"

Magnussen interrupts. "I assume that this appointment means that you know that Mycroft Holmes is no longer convinced that the samples are from you."

Ford nods. _Perceptive indeed._ "I need to up the ante, as the poker analogy says."

"Ah, and there I was hoping that I might finally learn what is in the jackpot—this mystery package of yours."

Sipping his tea, Ford takes a moment and then flashes a knowing smile. "You have spent years trying to decode it, haven't you?"

Magnussen's smile matches his own. "Of course. You expected that. I must congratulate you on your skills, Mister Knaslovsky. I have … _convinced_ … some of the best cryptographers in the world to have a go, but to no avail."

Ford nods. When he had placed the blackmail material with Magnussen all those years ago, he'd known it was a risk. But the cipher was known only to him, and would only be sent to Magnussen if Holmes broke the agreement that kept Ford alive. He and Mycroft were like two men with loaded guns facing one another, not daring to fire knowing that if they did, they would most certainly be destroyed, as well. _Mutual assured destruction_ —Ford knew that Mycroft believed it would be sufficient deterrent. The fact that he'd never dared have Ford killed is testament to the success of their stand-off.

The deal had kept Ford alive, albeit voiceless and imprisoned in Tbilisi. It's taken him six long years slowly but surely to make his way out of that exile and into a position where, finally, he will be able to break the deadlock, destroy Mycroft Holmes and that silly interfering brother of his. At last, Ford will be able to claim his birth-right and become the next Viscount of Sherrinford.

"Do you wish to publish?"

Ford shakes his head. "No. Not yet. There is revenge to be extracted before that. The arrest of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes for multiple murders will have to wait."

This revelation has the expected effect on Magnussen, who leans back on the sofa with a broad grin. "Oh, how very _wonderful_! The hero who saved London—the resurrected detective—a murderer. I can see the headlines now. And the brother, too? That is the icing on the cake, the mysterious man who moves the levers of power without hapless politicians having the slightest idea they are being manipulated to serve his cause. Truly, this pair make a delectable target. Do tell me how I can help."

As the afternoon wears on, and the tea is replaced by a rather fine wine, Ford unveils his plans, telling the Dane only what he needs to know in order to deliver his part in the plot.

"Did you enjoy watching the video I sent you?"

The Dane smiles and removes his glasses, giving them a clean with the pocket square from his suit jacket. "I am always amused by the British obsession with this Guido Fawkes. Bonfire nights in Scandinavian culture are much more ancient in origin." He replaces the spectacles and peers at Ford. "So, you were behind the bomb plot, I think."

"You might think that. I couldn't possibly comment."

"Of course not. Especially as Sherlock Holmes got all the credit for being London's saviour."

Ford draws a deep breath to stifle his annoyance at Moran's failure to deliver. At least the man has paid the ultimate price for his failure. To divert Magnussen, he continues, "Watson is his weakness and one that is simple enough to exploit. I have concocted a series of little cases designed to put Watson at risk. All you need to do is put a few people in the frame and get things started. You'll have fun doing that, I think."

"I am a busy man, Mister Knaslovsky. When do you want my assistance?"

"I will entice Mycroft Holmes away from London in mid-May. During his absence, Lady Smallwood is going to put Sherlock in harm's way, with a little bit of help from you." Ford hands over a packet of letters. "This is what I have on Lord Smallwood; use it to blackmail his wife. If she is as predictable as I think she is, then she will turn to Sherlock Holmes. He's a private detective after all. She will want discretion, lest her own security clearance become tarnished."

The tall, thin man takes the packet of letters and turns it over in his long fingers, before bringing it close to his face to sniff. Ford realises that Magnussen is someone who gets off on the power games involved in blackmail. He doesn't do it for money or even influence. There is something more visceral in the man's reaction to the letters. _Perfect._

Ford is smiling when he adds fuel to this particular bonfire. "Sherlock Holmes is a drug addict; I'm sure you've heard the rumours. He can be further damaged by his loyalty to John Watson. I have a person in place who will prove useful—a former freelancer who owes me a favour. Miss Mary Morstan, Watson's fiancé, is not what or who she seems. Through gross stupidity, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood has done me a tremendous favour. You will ensure that you find a way to get close to Morstan, so when the time comes, you can deliver a message."

By the time the brandy and cigars have come out, the two men have agreed the necessary steps.

Outside, it is snowing again. A harsh east wind from the Urals is stripping off the last few dead leaves off the trees, which are blown away in the dark, lost in the flurry of snowflakes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Magpies: Four for a Boy. The events from this meeting up to the Watson Wedding are covered in my stories, Magpies: Two for Joy and also in the Got My Eye on You Series, in Watching Brief. Next up will be a short Ex File chapter, and then onto Magpies: Five for Silver.


End file.
